


Soft Things

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Frank Castle is an Idiot, Humiliation, M/M, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 20:31:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19363681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Frank only keeps things that serve a purpose.





	Soft Things

Frank doesn't like soft things.

Frank is practical, relies on durability and utility too much to worry about comfort. He's trained himself to sleep anywhere he can sit down, trained himself to ignore aching muscles and the screams of old wounds, to dismiss the gravel in his joints and the stiffness creeping into his knees when the weather gets damp and cold.

He surrounds himself in multipurpose, utilitarian tools, everything useful for a number of things. Streamlined replaced comfortable years ago, useful replaced fashionable. 

Lieberman is useful. And in all the ways Frank needs it to count, Lieberman is not as soft as he looks. There's a well of anger in him, a sense of righteousness, so even if they don't always see eye to eye, Lieberman is useful, willing to be of use. 

Like all things Frank allows in his life, Lieberman is capable of a number of things. Computer shit, running intel, cleaning and procuring ready cash. Lieberman can stitch a wound, or get Frank to someone who can keep him breathing if stitches ain't gonna cut it. He's a sounding wall when Frank needs to work something out out loud, and a secret keeper.

And his hands are clever. Quick and deft, every movement graced by intention. He learns fast and rarely makes mistakes.

Lieberman is soft in ways that don't matter, shouldn't matter. Soft face, soft, honest eyes -- soft even when sparked with anger. Heavy, soft gut; thick, soft thighs.

And those hands, those clever hands. Lieberman has few callouses, and those he has are from very different things than what's roughened Frank's hands. When he pushes Frank's hair back from his brow, those hands are soft.

God, so soft.

It scares something in Frank, something twisted and mean, the way he lets this soft man, this gentle-eyed, clever-handed soft creature push him around. He can't, sometimes, can't stand it -- Lieberman backs him against a wall and gets those hands, those soft, strong hands, on Frank's body, and that snarling, angry thing in Frank wins. And Lieberman is soft; he never forces Frank to be still. Couldn't if he tried, but it helps, when Frank's fighting that rabid, raging thing in his head, to remember that Lieberman has never even tried to take more than is offered.

And it's good. It's -- like this, hands gripping the metal bars of the cot's headboard, Lieberman's hands mapping the war zone of Frank's torso, it's good. Frank's desperately hard, leaking into his boxers, but Lieberman takes his time. That's part of the agreement; it doesn't, can't, happen often, so when it does, they take their time. 

Plenty of time for Frank to cry off. Get overwhelmed, lose his grip on the rabid thing, stalk off. Lieberman accepts this when it happens. He says his hands and imagination have gotten him through plenty fine for a while now, says it like just the idea of him jacking off isn't enough to get Frank hot.

Lieberman likes to tease. He's got a smart mouth, but he's no slouch with his hands (his soft, deft, clever hands) either. 

When they're like this, Lieberman's in charge. Frank in charge wants hard and hot and fast, Lieberman wants it to feel good. So Lieberman is in charge. When he drapes himself over Frank, the weight of him, heavy, hot, real -- it's so good. Frank never expects it to be so good, and he forgets himself, letting go of the headboard so he can get his hands on the soft curves of Lieberman's shoulders, so much more grounding to hold while the man savages his neck.

But Lieberman stops when he touches, because he doesn't hold or push or try for force, but that doesn't mean he can't manage torture.

"Hands on the headboard Frank," he says, slipping out of Frank's hold to kneel back between his legs. "You don't let go've it til I say."

The snarling thing doesn't like that, doesn't like it at all, but the rest of Frank -- oh, the rest of him loves it. Loves that anyone can know him the way Lieberman knows him and can still look at him, talk to him that way.

He puts his hands back where they belong, over his head.

Lieberman is a good man to have in charge; he likes positive reinforcement, rewards obedience promptly. In this case, the second Frank’s hands are locked around the bar of the headboard, Lieberman’s hands find his thighs, smoothing up ruthlessly toned muscle, dipping his fingers under the ratty hems, teasing. 

Frank’s shiny with sweat, and it takes a good deal of self control to keep himself from bucking into those hands, trying to get _something_ , anything. Lieberman’s glasses are askew, dark hair clinging to his scalp, and he’s grinning, savagely pleased to have Frank beneath him. 

“Tell me what you want,” Lieberman says. “Can you do that for me?”

He likes making Frank say it. He likes making Frank talk, any time, not just when they’re like this. People are quick to see the rabid animal in Frank, the snarling dog off his leash, and most people’s reaction to that, to the sight of a dangerous, violent beast, is to put him down, give him peace the way you’d give any dog the same. Lieberman makes him talk. Lieberman makes him slow down, think, pace himself.

Lieberman makes him act like a man, even when Frank doesn’t feel like one. 

Still, it’s not easy. What in life is ever easy? Lieberman asks him to say what he wants, and Frank tries -- he does, he can think it, he can admit in his head what his body is already screaming, but somewhere between brain and mouth the words get chopped up fine and come out as nothing, just a grunt as Frank gives in and hitches his hips into those hands.

“No, no,” Lieberman says, and Frank groans, sound dangerously close to a whine. He doesn’t know how Lieberman manages this shit, how he acts so unaffected when Frank can tell he’s just as pent-up eager. “Don’t whine about it, use your words.”

Frank snaps without thinking, the words sharp in his throat, “Fuck you.”

And Lieberman just smiles. “Oh, I don’t think that’s what you want, Frank,” he says. His fingers are creeping up, up under the edge of Frank’s shorts, slow, another tease. “I really think that’s the opposite.”

It is, fucking smug bastard. That soft face bright with that crooked smile and those glasses sitting too low on his nose; Frank wants to smash his fist into that grin, wants to haul him down and bite him, kiss him bloody. He wants control; he wants Lieberman to give him what he can’t make himself ask for. 

He tightens his hands on the headboard and tries to steady his breathing. 

The fingers dipped under the edges of his boxers slide back, Frank’s legs resting on Lieberman’s thighs now the only point of contact. Frank watches his hands, those clever hands, watches Lieberman rake his fingers through his hair, run a hand down the curve of his neck to his collarbone. He’s soft, round and heavy and _soft_ , his curves miles from feminine but infinitely more gentle to look at than the hardness Frank’s body shows. 

Frank doesn’t like soft things. He’s enamored by Lieberman anyway.

He can build guns and he can shoot them, deadly. Stronger than he looks, stronger than anyone would suspect. Frank wants him, wants him to --

"Maybe I should just take care of me," Lieberman say, working his hand around himself. The angle is bad like this, but when Lieberman hitches up onto his knees with a little grunt of effort, Frank's legs fall to either side and Frank can see Lieberman's hand on his cock, firm and steady. He's big, thick and cut and Frank wants him to stop playing, wants him -- "What if I did, Frank? What if I just jack off here, cum on you. Since you obviously don't want anything else... if you wanted, you'd ask. You're not some dumb animal who can't talk to me. You want that, maybe? Me to rub my cum into your skin, leave you here like that?" 

That’s not what Frank wants, but there is a certain appeal there, a certain desirable humiliation, the kind of dirty, low effort thing he can get off on without really participating, mitigating the feeling that he’s indulging in this thing he should be clear of. 

Lieberman’s teeth catch on his lip, hand working beneath the curve of his gut, shock waves running though all that soft, firm flesh as he jerks himself, and Frank knows it’s a show -- it’s pornographic, fucking performative, but it looks _so good_ , and Frank’s jaw hurts from clenching so tight, and he wants --

“Lieberman,” Frank says, his voice sounding like a mile of bad road, rough and gravelly and barely his own. He twists, hands slipping on the headboard, slippery with sweat, it’s so fucking hot in here with Lieberman hunched between his knees, so close and still not touching. “I want…”

“Yeah, Frank?” 

He holds out. He doesn’t know which mercy he’s hoping for; Lieberman to give up and leave him, Lieberman to give him what he wants without his having to say it, Lieberman to go back to jerking himself off, at least get the feeling, dirty and intimate, of Lieberman’s cum splashing hot across his gut. 

It’s only when Lieberman starts to look not annoyed, not irritated, but _worried_ , the way he gets when he thinks he’s pushed too far, overstepped in an argument, that Frank manages to finish the thought, because even the burning embarrassment of admitting what he’s wanted all fucking night is better than Lieberman looking at him that way. 

“Fuck me,” he offers, trying to relax his legs, letting them fall open to either side of the other man, making himself an offering. Just that feels filthy, wanton, something he should absolutely not be doing, but Lieberman’s face is so pleased, so fucking _soft_ , and Frank hates it, hates that twisting curl of hot pleasure in his chest at getting someone to look at him that way, getting _Lieberman_ to look at him that way.

Soft, clever hands help him out of his boxers, tossing them onto the floor with the rest of their clothes, and Frank can’t look at Lieberman like this, not laid out naked, desperately hard, cock angry-red and leaking while Lieberman lifts him, maneuvering his willing body to a better angle so he can slick him up with something more than their sweat. 

Those hands, god, _those hands_ , soft and strong and so good at whatever Lieberman set them to. Even missing a pinky finger, Lieberman has wonderful hands, graceful, deft, _soft_ even where they’ve been scarred or calloused. 

Frank twists to bury his face against the inside of his arm, like he can hide the way he goes ugly beet red in shame and arousal when Lieberman’s got two fingers buried in his ass to the knuckle. When they started this, the first few times, Frank’s knees would try to draw together, instinct driving him to try covering himself, and he couldn’t relax. The first time, very first time, Lieberman just played with his ass til he came all over himself, wringing his own dick like he meant to throttle it. Now Frank’s legs hitch apart willingly, thighs quivering as those fingers work him wet and loose, dragging him from tense apprehension to voracity, nothing on his mind but more.

A third finger, worked in more to drag it out, like they haven’t been here long enough. Frank should say something about that, call him on the waste of time, but all he does is buck his hips toward the sensation, useless, a desperate slut in need of a good fuck, and Lieberman hums his approval. 

“I bet you’d burst just like this if I let you touch your dick,” Lieberman says conversationally, and Frank can feel the way he’s watching him, feel it even though he can’t open his eyes. He knows what’s coming, knows as he lets himself be maneuvered again, Lieberman’s hands hot on his thighs now, helping him get lined up right. 

Frank might be half a foot taller and just barely heavier, but Lieberman isn’t the soft fat nerd he looks to be at a glance. He can hold his own in a fight, maybe not with Frank but against plenty of geeks who’ve underestimated him in the past. He’s got a sort of blunt linebacker strength Frank appreciates, raw and unpolished, more the smart employment of his own mass against what he needs moved than the working of any specific muscles. When Frank lets himself be moved, Lieberman handles him easily, guiding Frank’s legs to either side of his thighs.

He’s so hard and there’s so _much_ of him, his gut pressing down on Frank as his cock presses in, and Frank doesn’t really know what about that does it for him, but it’s something. It’s really something, his cock pressed to his own flat stomach as Lieberman thrusts, the drag of his gut soft and almost a tease. 

He feels full and consumed. Like this it doesn’t matter that Lieberman is the smaller of the two; like this Lieberman’s hands are on Frank’s hips, thumbs pressed along the ridge of bone and fingers pressing into muscle, and Frank can feel Lieberman everywhere, inside and out. Consumed, yeah -- consumed or maybe just owned.

Something works out of his throat that’s not a whine or gasp, it’s almost a word, the slow, casual movement of Lieberman in him not enough, not when Frank’s hands are still trapped over his head by Lieberman’s command. He wants to touch, he wants --

“Go ahead,” Lieberman says, and his voice is tender and tense, raw like he’s fraying too, and Frank finds his hands traitorously clutching at the headboard now, arms shaking as Lieberman picks up the pace, rocking the whole damn cot. “C’mon, Frank, hands on me.”

Not permission, but an order. It’s easier when it’s an order.

Fingers dig into the folds of fat at Lieberman’s side, clutching, feeling the slick of sweat building there, filling him with a perverse desire to bury his face into Lieberman’s side and lick him, taste him. Lieberman always smells good, even when they’ve been living rough weeks at a time; his sweat is sharp and masculine, the coarse curls of hair matted to his skin by heat feel good when Frank drags his fingers through them. He’s left welts and long scratches on Lieberman’s back in the past, feels the flaking scabs of previous sessions come loose under his nails now.

It’s disgusting.

It’s perfect. 

“Harder,” Frank asks, trying to work a hand between them, between the slick stickiness of their sweaty skin so he can stroke himself off properly. He’s close, he just needs -- just needs --

“Fuck, that’s good,” Lieberman groans, hitching Frank up at the hips, popping something in his lower back as he changes the angle -- it hurts for a second and then feels indescribably good, so much better, hitting something just right as Frank finally gets a fist around himself, reveling in the extra squeeze of being trapped under Lieberman’s gut. “Frank, I’m --”

He shouldn’t let this happen. It’s going to end badly, it’s always… Frank doesn’t have friends, he doesn’t have _partners_ , people who get close to him either get hurt or stab him in the back _before_ they get hurt. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t spend so much time wanting it, shouldn’t let Lieberman drag it out to this perfect, all-consuming burn.

“Do it,” he grinds out, gasping as he digs one hand into the yielding flesh of Lieberman’s back and pumps his cock with the other. “In me, give -- I want --”

Orgasm rips his words from him; just as well because he’s sure he sounds like the desperate, horny idiot Lieberman makes him feel like. His cum pulses hot and wet between them, a mess all over his trapped hand and both their stomachs, and Lieberman makes this sound in his throat, the first real sign of being overwhelmed as his thrusting goes uneven and hard, a few eager jack-rabbit motions before he slams home and cums, deep and hot and so good. 

They stay like that, Lieberman collapsed half over him, supporting his bulk on one arm, elbow dug into the pillow by Frank’s head. Lieberman’s hand, gentle and clever and soft, smooths over his forehead, pressing his hair back from sweaty skin, and all Frank can think is that his eyes are even soft, soft and green and waiting to be hurt because doing this is stupid on both their parts, and then the moment ends. Lieberman sits up with a soft grunt of exertion and Frank tries not to make any telling sounds when he pulls out. 

The best thing for either of them would be to put distance back between them right away. Not to linger. Keep it fast and transactional now that it’s done, now that there’s nothing to draw out. 

Frank digs his fingers into Lieberman’s thigh, clutching until Lieberman maneuvers to curl over him, glasses still just slightly askew when he kisses Frank. 

It’s stupid. Useless and pointless, an opening to get them both hurt bad. 

It’s soft, and Frank has no use for soft things. 

He curls the hand not drenched in cum against the back of Lieberman’s neck and keeps him there, just for a little while.


End file.
